All Is Bright
by Francesca Wayland
Summary: In December, 2012, two dead people live again for one night. [Can be read as a prequel to 'After Midnight,' and the rating is subject to change.]


Under a darkening sky and a gentle snowfall, the woman once known as Irene Adler stood before a formerly grand, desolate block of mansion flats. The air was chilled, but she was warmed by the blood pounding through her in the familiar staccato that always preceded her reunion with the man once known as Sherlock Holmes. It was provoked by a heady mix of anticipation and outright fear and the effect never lessened, no matter how many times they returned to one another, and regardless of whether their separation had been brief or lengthy.

That morning she had received a text from a blocked number with a location, only a location, but she had understood the inherent invitation and who was behind it. For Sherlock Holmes it was as overt an admission of need and sentiment as she could expect, but she knew she could take it as such nonetheless.

And as she always did when she received such texts she had cancelled or rescheduled all pre-existing plans and had purchased a flight, without hesitation or any concern for the expense of a last-minute booking. She recognised that her former self might've viewed such actions with derision and alarm, but in this one, unique way she wasn't the same person she had been.

In one form or another power dynamics had been the defining factor in all of Irene's other interpersonal dealings, and if she'd detected the slightest threat to her supremacy, whether it were due to her own growing attachment or the other person's attempt to push for emotion intimacy, she had immediately terminated contact.

It was so different with Sherlock. Granted, there was ever an undercurrent of competition and challenge that hummed and sparked between them, but it was within the context of absolute certainty that they were equals and shared a singular understanding. Irene viewed it as the electricity that powered their relationship, rather than the engine itself. They might never verbally acknowledge the actual nature of their sentiments for one another, but then to borrow a turn of phrase from Sherlock: to do so would be dull, _obvious_. They expressed themselves in less convention ways, such as the time Sherlock had set the precedent of each of them flying across the world for the other, when he had travelled all the way to Pakistan those several years ago.

She took a bracing breath, tossed her head, squared her shoulders, and ran a smoothing palm down the length of heavy bouclé wool coat, which concealed beneath it a sheath the exact shade of the gathering drifts around her.

She knew that it was brash to look so much like Irene Adler—_herself_—again, particularly in a location this close both in location and culture to Western Europe. And yet in her relatively staid present life she craved an occasional dose of risk-induced adrenaline, and even a cheap shot such as this would suffice. She'd always had a bit of a self-destructive streak, and just because she was no longer going by Irene Adler didn't mean that her essential personality had changed. She still had that reckless daring about her, and she _liked_ that, and liked that about herself.

She had to admit that it wasn't only the risk of recognition that caused her pulse to throb in her veins. It was also the anticipation of Sherlock seeing her as he had originally known her, as she had been when they had originally started this intermittent but enduring dance of theirs. She was eager to see him react to her, and almost more eager to see that self reflected through him and back to her again like a prism, and in the full spectrum of colour it would project.

It wasn't the original garment, but a replica she'd had made out of an inferior fabric. It occurred to her that Sherlock would see that in an instant, and she wondered with dismay if he would think she was chasing some faded, past glory that was impossible to recapture. But if he did think that perhaps he would also understand it, so maybe that was all right.

When she had left the original dress behind it wasn't the only once-prized possession she'd had to abandon; she could only take the barest of assets along with her in her new life as a fugitive, and that excluded both property and goods. Still, high-end items and a prestigious address were nothing next to the career and persona she'd lost—or the security to misbehave without consequence.

She guessed that the new mistress in Kate's life, because there was inevitably a new mistress in Kate's life, was enjoying the couture she'd left behind, if Kate had been inclined to keep it at all. Perhaps she had opted to sell it all out of bitterness, especially since Irene had vanished in the middle of the night without any explanation. That had been part necessity, but in truth it had mostly been unwillingness to admit to Kate—who had always viewed her as so flawless and infallible—that Irene had lost everything in manner that was almost axiomatically a Shakespearian tragedy. She couldn't look into the eyes of someone who had once placed her on a pedestal and see the disappointment and disillusionment consume the admiration, not for a second time that night. Nor could she watch Kate realise that every promise Irene had ever made about how she would provided for Kate was forfeit, and all because of the one thing Irene had withheld from her: genuine sentiment. So she had only left a note that read, _It's for the best, all of this is yours now_," and ended with a spontaneous red imprint of her lips. That had been her last act as Irene Adler.

The thought of her former companion caused the unwelcome sort of hitch in her breathing, but despite the dress she wore this was a time for moving forward, not looking back.

She pushed against a pair of massive etched metal doors and entered a dark reception, then rode the groaning wrought-iron lift to the top level. As it shuddered upwards floor by floor and she took in the dilapidated splendour of the once-glorious Beaux Arts building, she attempted not to consider it a metaphor for herself and her own situation.

_Forward_, she reminded herself scathingly.

When the lift juddered to a stop she pulled back the pitted golden grille to reveal a single door, which opened before she'd even stepped out; the grind of machinery had announced her presence.

Her first reaction was a small gasp of attraction, and her second was a low, appreciative laugh. She wasn't the only one who looked different, or more to the point, the _same_.

He wore a slim-fitting pale grey shirt, dark trousers, and his hair was brushed over his forehead in a tumble of waves rather than shorn short or scraped back in the severe style he'd worn if it had grown longer. She was amazed at how much seeing him looking so himself caused her heart to skip a beat and a buzz to settle in her abdomen as if she'd just downed a large dose of champagne.

In turn he took in her form with a neutral, scrutinising expression, but when he raised his eyes back to hers one corner of his mouth tightened upward, and his eyes alit with humour and attraction.

"Ms. Adler, I presume," he said in a low drawl, and her small smile blossomed into a sharp grin at his instant understanding. All her fears were assuaged at once, as they always were when she and Sherlock actually reunited and their natural chemistry and compatibility banished her apprehensions.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she replied with clear relish for the name, and he opened the door wider for her. Looking into his eyes she slid past him through the narrow gap, and deliberately brushed his chest and upper arm with her breasts.

Despite the fact that there were still at least four layers of fabric between them she was rewarded with an almost-inaudible intake of air through nostrils, and as she made her way into the room she wore a look of blazing satisfaction.

Irene knew that nowhere in the world did any dataset, file, or electronic memo indicate that either she or Sherlock Holmes were still alive, and yet in this forgotten penthouse there was an excess of proof. A hitch in breathing, cheeks flushing with colour, a quick swallow – these were all testaments to the fact that although outside of these walls they might only be surviving, here, now, if only for a little while, they would live.


End file.
